


We'll Take Our Chances

by msmoocow



Category: Glee
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-08 14:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmoocow/pseuds/msmoocow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Baby, I love how you sing, so just sing.</i> Or, the one where they're in a boy band.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_The voice is clear; warm, with a rich tone that doesn’t root Kurt to the spot so much as the look on the boy’s face does._ "Let you put your hands on me," _he sings right at Kurt, who buzzes pleasantly all over because that look is definitely a_ promise. 

( _yesterday_ )

"Sam quit the band?" Finn asks, chewing on something. Pork chops, Kurt suspects, judging from the jovial tone in his father's voice as he'd wrapped up their conversation and apologized— _sorry kid, I’ve got to finish Carole’s dinner, but Finn’s almost done eating_ —before digging back into his meal with an audible clink of knife and fork.

"Yeah. I don’t blame him. Mostly. It hasn’t been a piece of cake so far, and we haven’t even started recording yet."

"Ouch," Finn says, voice low with sympathy. "You’re gonna need a lot of star power to replace Sam Evans."

Kurt laughs, though he doesn’t much feel like it. "Yes, well. Maybe we can all leave our shirts off for the next decade to make up for the loss."

"Uh."

"Sorry." He shrugs and runs a hand through his hair, gestures that Finn can’t see but that make Kurt feel more put-together anyway. "We're holding auditions tomorrow, though. Just us and Schue and the guys that almost made it in the first round, though Rachel wants to come and he’ll probably let her watch. And by ‘watch’, I mean ‘take over’, but if it solves our problem I’m all for it."

"Rachel as in your _girlfriend_ Rachel Berry?"

Kurt chokes on breath, retching as he hisses, "What?"

"Dude. You haven’t seen the Muckraker?"

Again, Finn can’t see, but it’s definitely an eyeroll-worthy comment. "That third-tier Perez Hilton wannabe?"

"It’s not my fault your dad makes me Google you every week," Finn mumbles.

"And I’m up there?

"There’s a picture of you two on this morning’s Seen and Heard post. Outside that uh, coffee place you like so much."

"Bean Yourself?"

"Hey!"

"No, that’s the coffee shop," Kurt explains. "The owner’s a little uptight, but he doesn’t care how long you stay and he makes a great mocha."

"Ah. Cool." Finn chuckles. "Maybe you can take me there sometime."

"Soon, Finn."

Kurt smiles into the phone as they smoothly switch topics. Finn tells him all about the past week at North Lima Community College, and what’s going on with the guys at the shop.

-

The two-bedroom LA apartment he shares with Mike is nice enough—not resort living, but definitely above what he’d be able to afford on his own. Sam used to share the place (he and Mike had played rock-paper-scissors and Mike had won the single, but Kurt staked a firm claim on the master bedroom with ensuite bathroom), and in the week that he’s been gone, the room feels emptier. Which is more surprising than it sounds—Sam didn’t take up much space, even insisting on picking out a utility cot to sleep on though the label offered much nicer selections from the quarterly IKEA catalog. Sam only had his guitar and maybe a few changes of clothes, and he’d packed them up swiftly before he left, casting a salute to Kurt and the rest of the band and slinging his duffel bag and guitar case over his shoulder before walking out the door for good.

Kurt fires off a short text to him ( _Hope you’re well. We’re looking for your replacement today but I bet he won’t have half as good of a James Earl Jones impression!_ ) and steps into the shower to prepare for the inevitably long morning. By the time he’s ready, Mike is flipping pancakes and sausage on the stove, and Kurt gratefully takes the offered plate and sits at the kitchen counter.

"Like it?" Mike asks, spearing a sausage on the end of his fork and taking a huge bite.

"It’s great," Kurt answers. He’s not just being polite; he’d never lie to spare Mike’s feelings. The food is delicious, and from the looks of the kitchen carnage, there doesn’t seem to be a tacky pre-made boxed pancake mix in sight. "You know, I’ve never seen you make breakfast in the month we’ve been roommates? I’m impressed!"

Mike rolls his shoulders back, accepting the praise with a gracious smile. "I don’t cook that much, but a good breakfast makes me feel better about a day of big decisions. The last time I did it was the day we got signed."

Kurt cuts another piece of pancake and swirls it in maple syrup, popping it into his mouth and nodding thoughtfully at Mike. "You’re worried about the new guy?"

"He could be awesome, you know? Or he could be rude. He could be talented or handsome or a huge douchebag who can’t sing." Mike leans forward over his now-empty plate, eyebrows drawn together. "I don’t know what to expect. What if we pick someone and he doesn’t fit in? It’s been months, but I feel like I’ve known you guys practically my whole life. I can deal with change, or whatever this band is going to give us. I can’t deal with losing my friends."

Everything Mike is saying rings frighteningly true. If a new addition to the band ruins their dynamic as friends, much less musicians, he’s not sure if he’d be able to handle it.

"Then we can’t let it happen," Kurt says with finality, pushing his chair in and carrying their plates to the sink. Mike brushes his elbow against Kurt as he stands, and they walk out the apartment door.

-

Cody Melrose is the hottest manager on the music scene. They’re lucky to have him, Kurt knows, but he has a way of making Kurt feel like he’s in high school all over again.

"All right kids, here’s the situation." Cody claps his hands twice for attention. "Evans left. Where does that leave us? We’ve got out requisite bad boy—" Puck touches his fingers to his temple in a salute, "—our nerdy sweetheart—" Artie raises a fist, "—our shy, friendly one—" Mike raises his head, bright-eyed, "—and our babyfaced youngster." Kurt tips his head in acknowledgement, and Cody asks "So where does that leave us?" He doesn’t remind Cody that they’re all 18. It’s not worth the "Sure, whatever" he’ll get in return.

"I’m waiting," Cody says impatiently, making a show of tapping his wrist. He’s not even wearing a watch. Kurt finds this tic incredibly obnoxious. The boys exchange glances, Mike throwing Kurt a puzzled frown and Cody sighs heavily. "What we’re missing, boys, is our heartthrob. Our _dreamboat_." He stresses the word _dream_ like it’s about ten letters longer than it actually is. "You were all chosen for your talent, and definitely your looks. But let’s face it—what we need is the kind of stud teenage girls would line up to throw their panties at."

"Hey," Puck says, affronted.

Cody raises a hand to shut him up. "Call me when you bag a chick under forty." Puck shrugs, because well, Cody does have a point. They’re not blind to their own strengths and weaknesses. While Kurt has no trouble admitting that as a whole, they're an attractive bunch, there's still something missing; a vital component that he's not sure he can name. "So today, we’re going to bring some guys in, all left over from the same auditions you went through, and you’re going to help me decide on a fifth member, and you will pick somebody tolerable, and sexy. Got it?"

They nod.

-

The first guy is fine, attractive but bland, like a store-bought snack pack of vanilla pudding. He sings the most insipid cover of "With a Little Help from My Friends" that Kurt has ever heard. The first chorus is barely over when Cody calls " _Next!_ "

After him comes a string of young men so determinedly unique in their approaches that they all start to run together: the one with the spandex bodysuit and actual flaming batons; the one who, in the middle of Selena Gomez’s "Love You Like a Love Song", decides to switch his routine up at the last minute with a display of Gregorian chant; the man with the decent voice muffled by his enormous squirrel’s head mask who asks Kurt if he has a Second Life account. (Artie had wildly shaken his head at this, and Kurt felt it was best to follow Artie’s lead.)

By the time they break for lunch, Kurt can feel the tension starting to break them all. Even Mike seems to be losing it, and that’s saying something. He comes back from Bean Yourself down the street with a mocha and a bagel with cream cheese (he’s not singing today; he can afford to indulge in some dairy) when a guy stops him in the parking lot.

"Hi," the guy says. He folds his hands—strong-looking hands, Kurt most certainly does not notice—in front of him, a endearingly charming gesture that also draws Kurt’s eye down to the trim line of a waist, snugly covered by a crisp, well-tailored shirt. "I was told to come here for the New Directions audition after lunch. Am I late? I’m afraid I got lost on the way, and..." He makes a face that’s probably supposed to be rueful, but Kurt is entranced by the slight uptwist of his pout, the flutter of thick lashes under a heavy, furrowed brow.

Kurt swallows. "No, lunch is just ending. You should be fine if your timeslot’s after." Relief breaks on his face, like Kurt’s just told him no, they won’t be kicking his puppies after all, and it’s just Kurt’s luck that a smile makes the guy about ten times more attractive, even moreso than he already was.

"Thanks," the guy says, looking down, and then back up into Kurt’s eyes as he stretches out a hand that Kurt takes slowly, dazedly. "My name’s Blaine."

-

Several times after, Kurt will look back on this moment and wonder how differently his life could have gone if he hadn’t done this. He takes a breath, takes a chance.

"We’re about to go back in for the rest of the auditions. Come on. I know a shortcut."


	2. Chapter 2

It’s not a shortcut.

It’s just a straight walk from the main entrance to the rear offices, through the courtyard that separates the two, but Kurt feels a little daring as he leads Blaine past the wooden park benches, over the simple stone paths, under the breezy leaves of the oak trees that line the way. Only when they reach the rear office doors do they step apart, and Kurt can feel the warm blush he’s sporting as he lets Blaine’s hand drop. Blaine doesn’t even look fazed by the prolonged contact, but Kurt knows better than to take this as a great sign.

He does, however, take it as a potentially good sign, so he opens the door for Blaine to walk through. "Oh," he says, "and by the way? My name’s Kurt. I’m in the band."

"Nice!" Blaine says, shuffling over to the folding chair Kurt offers to him. "I guess I’m lucky I ran into someone who can show me the ropes."

The statement would sound presumptuous, edging on suggestive, if Blaine’s face wasn’t so sunny about it. Kurt looks away before he has a chance to swoon. They’re alone in the room still, and the clock on the wall reads five minutes to one, so he turns back to Blaine and narrows his eyes, trying to look authoritative. The soft twitch of Blaine’s mouth tells him he’s not succeeding, but he plows on anyway.

"Are you planning any costume changes? Fire stunts? Unicycle juggling?" At each question Blaine’s eyebrows form different shapes of puzzlement, and he thankfully shakes his head to all of them. "Good." Kurt nods, but he remembers the man in the squirrel's head mask and leans in, solemn. "And this is very important. Be as honest as you can — are you or have you ever been a furry?"

Blaine tilts his head, but answers anyway. "No more than most men? I've shaved every day since I was twelve." He presents his chin, as if for inspection, and Kurt suppresses a small laugh.

"Okay." Kurt leans in closer. "Then you just might be our guy." When Blaine beams, Kurt can’t help but return the expression. He hasn’t even heard Blaine sing, but he’s already way ahead of the competition as far as Kurt’s concerned. "The first thing to remember is that apparently Cody — he’s our manager — wants a decent replacement for Sam. Sam was our, um." Kurt falters, grimacing at the phrase. "Our sex symbol." Blaine nods, and Kurt continues. "What you need to do is convince him that you can be the hot one. Can you sing? Dance?"

"Yes," Blaine says, earnestly, without a trace of sarcasm, though his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Sometimes I do both at once."

"Then all you need to do is be the heartthrob we’re apparently missing," Kurt says, looking over his shoulder as Cody arrives with the rest of the guys behind him. "You’ll be fine."

"You think so?"

Kurt’s reply is halted when Cody's voice booms, cutting through the quiet, comfortable space he and Blaine have created. "Break’s over! You," Cody says, pointing to Blaine, whose _who, me?_ expression is comically adorable. Cody checks his clipboard. "You’re Blaine Anderson?"

"Yes, sir." Blaine stands to shake Cody’s hand and pulls a flash drive from his pocket — the audition accompaniment, of course — and Cody points him to the stereo system.

It’s the first time they’ve been more than two feet apart in the entire ten minutes they’ve known each other, and Kurt takes the opportunity to appraise him with a critical eye, to see what Cody might see. There’s still the classically handsome face and the strong, compact build, but Kurt sweeps over the 1950s movie star hair, the neatly tied bowtie, the cropped mustard pants which — Kurt finds as he checks out Blaine’s profile — show off his ass to fantastic effect. The outfit is a good one. Blaine looks _good_.

Cody's face remains impassive, though. When he frowns slightly, Kurt knows he must have his doubts.

"Hey," Artie says, rolling closer to Kurt and leaning over the arm of his wheelchair. He nods towards the stage, where Blaine has his back to them. "What's his story?"

Kurt watches Blaine rub his hands together, head bowed like he's concentrating. "His name's Blaine. Good manners, great attitude, soft hands. No surprises in store for the performance." He pauses, wondering if he covered all the bases when interrogating Blaine. "Well. I hope, anyway."

"Mmhmm," Artie says. Kurt doesn't respond to the suspicious gleam behind Artie's glasses because the music is starting and Kurt nearly laughs out loud in utter shock.

"Teenage Dream" may be an earworm of an idealistic love song, but the way Blaine sings it is nearly sinful. His hips sway side to side, his eyes positively aflame, and Kurt hopes he's not imagining the way Blaine seems to sing _right at him_.

"Dude," Kurt hears Mike whisper. "He's amazing."

Blaine takes the makeshift stage like he was born to do it, knowing exactly how to move and when to grin and where to throw a brief, smoldering glance. Most of those looks land in Kurt's direction, and he's never been flirted with so brazenly before — or, come to think of it, at all. Is this even flirting? Kurt chances a look at Cody, stoic as ever, and he bites his lip as his pulse races. If Blaine doesn't win Cody over, there's no hope left. They may as well go home, because it will never get better than this.

The song ends with Blaine folding back into himself, hands clasped together and sporting a calm, bright smile If not for the rapid catching of breath, Kurt wouldn't even be able to tell that he just gave the performance of a lifetime. Kurt looks around. Mike is practically vibrating with glee even as he applauds; Puck looks overwhelmed and on the verge of tears; and Artie looks awed, mumbling something under his breath that sounds like "I still have the use of my penis."

They all hold their breath and turn to Cody as Blaine takes a bow.

"Shit." Cody blinks, cupping his own chin and scrubbing his stubbly jaw with the meaty pad of his thumb. "That was...that was unreal, kid. You are a _star_."

"Thank you," Blaine says, accepting the compliment for what it is. Kurt wants to find out what it is, though, waiting for verbal confirmation. The guys seem to love him already, and Kurt...Kurt doesn't want to start printing out wedding announcements just yet. Not now, anyway. But Blaine took to the stage like a kid in a candy store, all charming presence and dashing good looks, and if the next words out of Cody's mouth aren't —

"You're in! Congratulations, and welcome to New Directions."

Blaine breaks out into his biggest, happiest grin yet, nearly cartoonish in his joy. He strides toward Kurt and the others with wide, welcoming arms. Artie holds up a hand for a high five, Puck gives him a respectable thump on the back, and Mike tackles him in a hug so enthusiastic that they almost topple over. Blaine's happiness is infectious. Kurt can feel himself smiling just as broadly, and when he catches Blaine's eye up close and sees something just behind the smile, a suggestion of trust and gratitude that makes Kurt's stomach flip warm and fluttery, Kurt looks down.

He is so, so doomed.

—

"You should have seen him," Kurt says that afternoon, absently stirring his nonfat mocha. "He was perfect. Looking good, sounding good, staring me down and singing about skintight jeans..."

"So he was flirting with you?" Rachel's eyes grow wider in scandalized excitement.

In the six months he's been with Freakshow Records, Kurt has made some valuable friends. There are the guys, of course — he can't imagine how he got through all these years without them. But though he loves his bandmates like brothers, it's the girls on the label to whom he's grown closer than anyone.

"No," Kurt says, lifting his chin without meeting her eyes. "He wasn't flirting. I'm not doing that again." Mercedes reaches out a hand, and Kurt takes it gratefully, letting her rest her palm on his for a moment. "It's not like that."

"Like with Trouty Mouth?" Santana takes a sip of her caramel macchiato. She lifts the straw out and sucks on the end. Mercedes shoots her a glare, and Santana waves a hand in the air. "Please. He loved that name as much as you loved his juicy Abercrombie ass."

"Shh, I wanna hear about Kurt's sexy studmuffin!"

Santana rolls her eyes, but Kurt mentally thanks Rachel for the interruption. Sam is the last thing Mercedes needs to think about right now. "He's _not_ my sexy studmuffin. He's not anybody's sexy studmuffin." Kurt pauses. "Or he could have a boyfriend. Or girlfriend." His face heats up in dread. "What if none of this is real? What if I'm on a reality show, and they hired actors to be in the band, and he's sitting in a room with the executive producer and watching my face on a wall of television screens and laughing at me right now?"

"Kurt..."

"You're _in on it_ , aren't you!"

"Kurt!" Rachel levels her gaze, and Kurt takes a deep breath, calming himself. She continues. "While I understand the impulse, I don't think you should be selling yourself so short."

"Oh, I'd never. It's the rest of the world I'm concerned about."

"I hate to say it," Santana says, downing her drink, "but she has a point. Hot stuff sounds way into you."

Kurt shakes his head. "You don't get it. I spent eighteen years of my life in Ohio and I never met anyone who was gay. It's not like the universe decided to drop one into my lap."

"Welcome to LA, bitch," Santana says. She pulls a travel-size manicure set from her purse and focuses her attention on filing her nails down. Rachel gives her a curious look, but Santana pointedly avoids eye contact.

Mercedes sighs. "Kurt. He sounds great. You know he likes you. Maybe not that way, but he definitely likes you. He could be a great friend." She smiles gently. "Just don't go forgetting about us."

"Forget about my girls?" Kurt frowns exaggeratedly, like the idea is preposterous, and their laughter carries through the cafe, over empty tables and chairs and to the ears of the day-weary cafe owner, who stops wiping the counter down long enough to listen.

—

The thing that Kurt hadn't considered was that Blaine would be taking Sam's place — not only in the band, but in his _bed_. The bed that lay pushed up against the opposite wall from Kurt's, with a scant six feet of space between them. The low-lying bed where Blaine is currently bent over, unpacking his clothes and offering a delectable view that Kurt is desperately trying to avoid.

"Sorry about the cot," Kurt offers. "I'm sure the label would provide something a little more comfortable if you asked for it. They pay for pretty much everything, within reason."

Blaine doesn't stop rummaging through his suitcase, but Kurt can hear the smile in his voice regardless. "It's not a problem. I went to an all-boys boarding school. Trust me, after those mattresses, anything else is a relief." He throws Kurt a mischievous grin over his shoulder. "Besides, if it gets too uncomfortable, I could always share yours, right?"

Kurt can barely picture such a situation, but thinking about it, even in the abstract, makes something in him run hot and dizzy. "I. Uh."

Blaine's eyes soften, face going polite and reserved again. "I'm sorry. I was just kidding."

Kurt feels childish in his own body, like the ungainliest of land-dwelling birds. To save his dignity, he quickly changes the subject.

"I cleared out space in the dresser for you. Sam only had one drawer, but well, man was not meant to survive on three baseball tees and four plaid button-downs. You have the bottom drawer and half of the middle one. And half the closet, too."

"Thanks!" Blaine carries the stack of pants over first, moving to the dresser between their beds and leaning down to place it neatly in the bottom drawer. He looks unaffected by the moment of awkwardness that just passed, and Kurt chooses to move on without comment. Kurt gives the pile a cursory glance; there are red pants and yellow pants (vermillion and mustard, he'd insist to anyone who asked) and several other hues, and a couple of pairs of jeans.

"So. You like colors?"

"Yeah," Blaine answers, transferring an equally vivid range of polo shirts to hangers and laughing softly. "It's a byproduct of a private school education. You should see my bowties!"

 _Too good to be true_ races through Kurt's mind, but he can't keep from lighting up a little and breathing, "I love a good bowtie myself!"

Blaine sets down a hanger and sits on the cot, knees at nearly chin level. He rests his hands on them, and his chin on top of his hands, and the effect is altogether boyish and endearing. "One time in high school, my roommate threatened to burn my entire collection. He singed one, actually, before I broke down and apologized."

Kurt gasps. "He did not!"

"He did!" Blaine nods."It was only fair. I spent the night before one of his biggest midterms making out with a guy in our room, and I admit it wasn't the most considerate thing I've ever done."

There's what seems like a split-second moment where Kurt's heart starts beating faster, thumping once more to the beat of _too good to be true_ , but he collects himself when he notices that Blaine's easy, open smile is closing up again and his chin has lifted off of his rigid knees.

"I — I'm sorry," Kurt stammers. "I've just. I've never met anyone else. Like me."

Something unreadable flashes across Blaine's eyes, but it's gone in an instant, replaced by the same careful, polite smile from earlier. "You've never met another queer person?"

"Nobody who’s out," Kurt says, snorting bitterly, "and he doesn't count."

Blaine tilts his head slightly, looking steadily at Kurt. "Do you want to talk about it?”

Kurt hesitates, searching Blaine's eyes. There's no judgement there, only an honest and open display of kind concern that has his shoulders relaxing, even as the voice in his head argues against lowering his defenses. Blaine knows what it's like. He's _been_ there, possibly, and he _cares_.

 _Too good to be true_ , the voice hisses, but Kurt pushes it aside. Blaine is friendly, and Blaine is gay, and Blaine cares about Kurt's story no matter what the voice in his head insists. Kurt's done with selling himself short. He shrugs, lifting his chin and throwing on a mirthless smile. "Where do I begin?"

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks are in store! First to [Lexie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexie) for her fabulous beta work, and to [Rachelle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/prosopopeya) for allowing me to copy-paste passages at her 24/7 while I sob into my keyboard and yell "WHY IS WRITING SO DIFFICULT!!!"
> 
> Also to The Format (RIP) for making me want fic set to their entire discography, but in this case I thank them for writing the song "Inches and Falling", from which I have derived the title and summary of this work.
> 
> Constructive feedback is lovely, and if you wish to give it you can find me on Tumblr over [here](http://youmooveme.tumblr.com/letstalk)! :)


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